Azra

The Eddie Buck knows would pick a nice, affordable but classy sit-down restaurant that was close enough to home he could be back in ten minutes if Chris needed him. Or if the date was bad enough. He'll be wearing a dark button-up and a pair of jeans that hug his ass in a way that makes Buck lose all sense of decorum. His hair will be perfectly styled with too much gel, and he'll be clean-shaven, and he'll finish it off with a spritz of his special date perfume.

But the Eddie that Buck knows never would've asked Buck on a date, so he really has no idea what to expect.

"Well, that one on the left is out," Maddie says.

"Why? What's wrong with that one?" Buck asks, indignant. It's not that he's particularly attached to that specific outfit, but he needs feedback. If he knows why it's bad, then he can adjust the others as needed. Narrow it down.

"For starters, I haven't seen that shirt in years. Does it even still fit you?"

Fuck. How hadn't he thought of that? In his defense, the items of clothing that haven't seen a first date are low in numbers and are, mostly, his casual clothes. Stuff he wears to work, or changes into after the gym, or when he hangs out with Eddie. At Eddie's house. Where they hang out platonically as bros.

Buck groans. "Okay, fine, that one's out. What about the other three?"

Maddie hums, sips her wine again to hide her smirk. Buck gets the sense he's being made fun of, but he lets her have this. At least she didn't say I told you so when he mentioned the date.

"That one in the middle—drop the blazer. You're going on a date, not a job interview."

"Feels like it," Buck snorts, then sighs and sits on the edge of his mattress. "I'm so nervous, Mads. My heart is racing and my hands won't stop sweating."

"Aw, Buck. That's sweet! It's exciting."

"It's gross. And what if Eddie wants to hold hands? I can't hold his hand if it's all clammy! That'd be a terrible first impression, and then what if he doesn't want a second date?"

"But it's not a first impression. Eddie's your best friend! I know for a fact he's seen you in far worse states."

"Oh, God, you're right! He has! What if he comes to his senses and realizes I'm a reckless, danger-prone idiot and he doesn't want me anymore?"

"Pretty sure he knows that already too. And guess what? He still wants you."

"Okay, okay, you're right," Buck runs a hand down his tired face. Even if this Eddie differs from the one he knows, he is still Eddie. He knows Buck inside out, all his flaws and his quirks, and Eddie still asked him out. "I just…I need this to work, Maddie. If it doesn't work out with Eddie, then it's done. There is no one else out there for me. This is my last ever first date and I can't Buck it up."

"Buck," Maddie stresses his name, fond but exasperated. "Eddie said he's in love with you. That's not first-date feelings; that's the same man who's known you for a decade. At this point, I don't think you could Buck it up if you tried."

Buck's stomach flutters at the memory. They'd been on Eddie's couch, beers in hand and feet kicked up on the coffee table. Paul Rudd's voice was on the TV talking about orchid bees, and Buck was watching the documentary, but Eddie had been staring at Buck.

He remembers the tips of his ears going pink, cheeks the same shade as his birthmark under Eddie's scrutinizing gaze. Feeling exposed and suddenly too hot, Buck had joked about having something on his face in hopes it would break whatever spell Eddie was under. But Eddie had held Buck's gaze, tilted his head a little like he was inspecting something, and then said, "Did you know I'm in love with you?"

Buck choked on his beer, embarrassingly catching Eddie in the spray. He set the bottle on the table as Eddie clapped him on the back a few times with purpose, but his gaze never wavered. It took Buck too long to realize he was waiting for an answer.

"No?" Buck said, unsure. As far as he was aware, Eddie was straight. That was not very straight of him.

"Huh," Eddie hummed, sitting back on the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. Buck missed the heat of his large palm on his back. "I'm pretty sure you're in love with me too."

Buck's face was on fire, and he didn't know if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, or if he'd rather God just flick him into the stratosphere like a bug. Either way, he wanted out of the conversation because he'd tried so hard to keep his feelings to himself, to not let them affect his friendship with Eddie, and here Eddie was—

Here Eddie was, apparently, in love with Buck too.

"I am," Buck squeaked.

"Okay," Eddie said, posture relaxing as his shoulders dropped, his arms uncrossed. "So, what are we doing?"

Buck had no idea how to answer that question; he never let himself imagine getting this far.

"We could be making out?"

Eddie had laughed then, a sudden, sharp bark, and Buck wasn't embarrassed because that sound was one of his favorites in the world. If Eddie was happy, then Buck was happy.

Or that's what he thought until Eddie actually didn't let Buck kiss him. Insisted on taking Buck out on a date first, doing it properly, like Buck deserved. Buck disagreed. In his opinion, what he deserves is Eddie's tongue down his throat and his hand on Eddie's ass, but Buck didn't argue. He could be patient, for Eddie, even if it was impossibly difficult to focus on the documentary after that.

The truth is that Buck knows Eddie just as well as Eddie knows him. He knows that, secretly, Eddie feels guilty for taking so long to figure it out, not that there was ever a time limit. Buck had tried telling him that, too, but Eddie hadn't listened, just apologized for wasting time and promised to make it up to Buck.

So, Buck needs this to be perfect. He needs Eddie to have a good time, needs him to know that Buck had a good time so they can drop the whole self-flagellation thing.

"Okay, so, outfit on the left?" Buck suggests.

"Try it on," Maddie says, and Buck tosses his phone on the bed so she can stare at the ceiling for a few seconds while he changes.

"How's this?" he asks, setting the phone up against the pillows so he can show Maddie the full outfit. He even does a twirl for good measure.

"I like the pants!"

Buck's stomach sinks. "So you hate the shirt?"

"Not what I said."

"You might as well have," Buck groans. "This is going to be a disaster. I have nothing to wea—"

There's a complaint waiting on Buck's tongue, but a knock at the door abruptly silences it. His head snaps to his phone, then to the watch on his left wrist, just to be sure.

"Shit, Maddie, the time! I didn't realize how long we talked!"

"Take a breath, Buck."

"I can't! I look terrible."

"You look great! And I'm sure Eddie will agree, so go to him, okay? Love you! Call me tomorrow!"

Then the call ends, and Eddie knocks again, and Buck is left with no choice but to commit to what he's wearing now: boring black pants and a boring blue button-up.

He's sure Eddie has seen this top before, probably too many times, but that will have to be okay. Eddie still wants him. Eddie is in love with him. The thought saps all the nerves, replacing them with giddy excitement. This is his last first date ever, and it's with his best friend.

Buck pockets his phone and goes to the door, eager to let Eddie in.

Somewhere in there Eddie should have stopped, had some sense, considered the consequences. Considered something outside the electric bubble of Buck and Yes and God your mouth—moaning like he'd never been touched before.

Buck's hair is soft through his fingers where Eddie tugs and strokes at it, guiding his head like he's in charge. But it's Buck at the wheel, Buck with all the control, all of Eddie's sense filling his mouth and making Eddie dumb with the pleasure.

He feels the leather of the couch sticking to his back, damp with sweat, his shirt pushed up around his chest. Sticking and unsticking as Buck bobs his head, messy and eager, gagging on him and barely pulling back to breathe. His fingers dig into the meat of Eddie's ass, perched over him, hunched to take him into his throat as deep as he can go.

It's feral, it's disgusting, depraved, it's—the best damn blow job of Eddie's entire life.

Music pulses in his ears, his blood pulses in his head, through his entire body, throbbing in his cock, to the unrelenting rhythm of Buck taking him down like he can't help himself, like he needs it to stay alive.

His throat flutters, he swallows and swallows, spit drooling out around the length of him, the filthy sound of it reverberating through Eddie's core. It rips the orgasm out of him without warning. He spills into Buck's mouth, waves of it filling him up as he greedily drinks it down. Eddie curls into it, his abs flexing, his hands holding Buck there, holding him down, making him take it—letting him take it.

Buck moans like the orgasm's his own.

The bliss that comes after is undisturbed even as awareness filters back in. Eddie remembers the people, remembers the chaos of a bachelor-less bachelor party that became an excuse for him and Buck to let go for a night and have some stupid fun.

Eddie's eyes open, he sees the mess of Buck, the beautiful, wrecked look on his face, with his cheeks flushed, lips swollen and pulled up into a self-satisfied smile.

Eddie's head swims and his heart skips and he pulls Buck up and onto him fully, one hand gripped in his hair to slam their mouths together, teeth and tongues and the remanence of Eddie's cum passed between them, the other hand grasping at his ass to rock him into Eddie's thigh, coaxing out perfect little whimpers onto his tongue.

A beat still pulses, bass thumping, and Eddie rocks Buck to the rhythm.

Once again everything fades away to just Buck. Warmth and safety and the pure, unyielding desire to touch and hold and never let go.

Buck speeds up his hips, breathes into Eddie's mouth, damp heat connecting every inch of them, as he breathes and moans and takes takes takes. Their lips drag together, sticky, panting—all instinct and desire.

Buck's hips stutter. Eddie's fingers grip harder, and he mumbles mindless encouragements: "come on, come on, that's it, so good, please…"

Buck gasps out, collapses and grinds with slow circles of his hips, as he twitches and comes, the warmth spreading between them.

"Fuck," It's him or it's Buck saying it, the distinction doesn't matter, it vibrates through their chests where they're pressed flush together.

Eddie is well and truly drunk; on alcohol sure, but mostly on Buck. On his touch, his smell, on the beating of his heart in sync with Eddie's. His limbs are buzzing, heavy yet light, floating away from him. Buck's skin is his only anchor. He draws his hands up the back of Buck's shirt to touch and caress, to feel.

The dread should be setting in now, should be taking him away out of the moment and into the realm of panic where he so often finds himself, but it doesn't, he floats. Buck nuzzles himself into the crook of his neck and lets out a huge breath, settling in like he's finally found that thing he's been looking for.

They lay there, tangled, in this strange room, on this strange day, in the wake of a dozen bad decisions, and Eddie takes a breath, buries himself into Buck's hair, pulls him impossibly closer, and let's oblivion take him.